


new york city, please go easy on me tonight

by elsaclack



Series: i know soon we'll be together [3]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: 3x23 spoilers, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Hiatus fic, even more than rivers and roads, guys i'm sorry, personal feelings projected on fictional characters, this physically hurt to write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-06 20:59:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6769666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elsaclack/pseuds/elsaclack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There isn't a single person in the world I'd rather have on this case than you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	new york city, please go easy on me tonight

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not even going to make excuses for this, it's so sad. It was so painful to write. I'm sorry.
> 
> It sort of loosely follows the events of Rivers and Roads, but if you haven't read that, don't worry. This doesn't 100% rely on R&R, and it doesn't give any major plot points away from R&R either.
> 
> The title of this comes from a Chainsmokers song called New York City, which is sO SO GOOD.
> 
> Again, I'm sorry.

Jake hides in the evidence lock-up, because that’s the only place he can think of that FBI agents won’t search for his personal belongings. He leans his full weight back against a row of shelves bearing about a dozen pounds of cocaine, letting the frigid shelves dig into the tense muscles of his back. When that does nothing to alleviate the tightness in his chest, he sinks down to his haunches, wincing each time a shelf bangs into his shoulders, before dropping flat to his butt. It’s a harsh jolt that almost knocks the air out of his lungs, and when tears spring up in his eyes, he does nothing to stop them from escaping and falling down his numb face.

His whole body is numb, really.

He’s going to _Florida._

This is _so_ not how this was supposed to end.

Andersonn was supposed to rat Figgis out, Jake was supposed to bust down the door and slap a pair of handcuffs on the monster, the two of them were going to rot in prison along with a literal horde of NYPD/FBI traitors forever, and Jake was going to look into rental rates for an RV that’s big enough to fit the whole precinct. It was supposed to be busting bad guys and planning a kick-ass road trip.

Now it’s a lot of panicking, hurriedly throwing his whole desk into a box (except for the Rubix Cube; he managed to snag that before the agents saw, and he’s got that one tucked safely in his jacket pocket. He plans on leaving it on Amy’s desk when the agents aren’t looking), and trying to figure out his WITSEC cover name. He’s bouncing between Larry Waltmeyer and Ernest Poe, though every time he brings up that last one, he gets a weird look from Agent Garcia.

(He figures out later that he's subconsciously mashed two author names together - he's spent way too long studying the covers of the books Amy buries her nose in on the couch on Thursday nights.)

It’s been tense, in a word, since he got that phone call. Jake witnessed an instantaneous transformation in each of his friends and coworkers the moment Holt made the quiet announcement; he got to watch the easy-going smiles slip away (not to be seen again thus far) from their faces, replaced by a visceral cocktail of fear and anger that varied slightly in proportion from person to person. Jake groans quietly and tilts his head back, grunting when he accidentally bangs it against the edge of a shelf. Of course.

They’ve each been near him in their own way since leaving the bar. Rosa, ever against physical touch or discussion of emotion, took to pacing silently between his desk and the windows, turning so sharply on her heel that her wild mane of curls whipped around her neck. Her glare was fierce enough to blister the paint on the walls and her jaw was clenched so tight he’s sure she’s damaged her teeth; he wouldn’t be surprised if she’d cracked a molar or something. Terry directed traffic in the middle of the precinct, keeping beat cops leading perps into and out of holding from running into agents hefting boxes of Jake’s life away, and every now and then he’d throw a nervous, paranoid glance over his shoulder, like he feared at any moment Figgis was going to bust in and blow the place up. Gina took up residence in the visitor’s chair beside his desk, watching the whole thing unfold through wide eyes, quiet for the first time in her life. It didn’t escape Jake’s notice that she seemed to choke on air every time the word “Florida” got thrown around in conversation. And Charles, blessed Charles, who had two lists written in Jake’s near-illegible scrawl tucked in his back pockets, helped organize his desk in boxes and neatly tape the flaps down.

Jake had pulled Charles aside the moment they got back to the precinct, shutting the door to the break room behind him and closing all the blinds. “Jake,” Charles said, and he sounded so scared and helpless. Just like Jake felt.

“I need you to listen to me very carefully,” Jake said, keeping his voice low both to convey just how serious he was in that moment and also to keep any unwanted attention out of the room. “Amy’s prone to panic attacks when she gets stressed out. They can get _really_ bad.”

Charles’ eyes were wider than any cartoon Jake watched as a child, and he nodded so quickly it was almost violent. Jake whipped his crime scene notepad out of his back pocket and began scribbling.

“She keeps a bottle of her anxiety medication in her purse, but she doesn’t take it daily.” He said. “It says something like Xanax or Zoloft or something like that on the label. Make sure she takes two if she mentions that she’s feeling anxious. Her breathing exercise is four in, two hold, four out, two hold. Do that over and over again, as exaggeratedly as you can, until she stops hyperventilating. She’ll start nodding when she’s okay. You can touch her arms and her shoulders, but do _not_ touch her back. Brushing her hair also helps, if you happen to have a brush on you.”

Charles was still nodding, his eyebrows drawn together in concentration, and Jake had to choke down the urge to start crying. Instead he gripped his pen a little harder, relishing in the way the hard plastic dug into the pads of his fingers.

“Make sure she eats. She forgets to do that when she's really stressed out. She likes those KIND bars they sell at that bodega around the corner. The dark chocolate ones are her favorites. She likes peanuts and almonds, too. Oh, and those pre-sliced red apples they sell by the bag at the bodega that come with peanut butter cups. And, Charles, you know I love you,” Jake grabbed Charles’ shoulders and squeezed, “but please don’t try to feed her any of your special food. It’ll only make her stress levels higher if you try to force, like...pickled horse gonads or something down her throat.”

“That’s disgusting.” Charles said, looking personally offended.

“That sounds _exactly_ like something you’d have in your fridge. Just, please. _Please_ take care of her while I’m gone. Or, y'know...until she starts taking care of herself. Promise me.”

“I promise you that I will take care of Amy while you’re in Florida. But, Jake?”

"What?"

“Who’s gonna take care of you?”

He didn’t answer that.

Holt seemed...subdued. Jake never imagined it would be possible, but he’d glanced over into Holt’s office and Holt was just...sitting. Staring. Eyes glazed, mouth drawn taut. He barely even glanced up when Garcia introduced himself.

And for just one second, Jake let himself be worried about Holt. How difficult must it be to have gone so many long months without Kevin, to have survived marriage troubles, to be six weeks from reuniting with the love of his life...just to find out that he has to move to Florida for an indefinite amount of time. Could be weeks. Could be months. Could be years.

Could be the rest of their lives.

Jake’s gaze had inadvertently darted to Amy, who had been right in the middle of talking to Agent Larson. Her whole body whispered tenseness; Jake wanted more than anything to sidle up behind her and work his thumbs over the knots in her shoulders until she was reduced to nothing more than quiet, contented hums like he’d done so many nights before. She was being so strong, and even though Jake knows she’s an incredibly tough person in general, he likes to think that maybe part of that strength is new. Born from time undercover in a prison surrounded by hardened murderers and criminals, unknowingly training herself for the task ahead. She’d sat right beside him in the briefing room when Garcia first laid out the plan and had held his hand beneath the table even though his hand was clenched into a fist, tight against his thigh. His whole body was numb except for that hand.

And after, he’d laced their fingers together and tugged her away, down the hall toward the bathrooms, where the noise was a little more distorted and muffled. “We’re going to find him.” She’d said, face pale and set in a kind of quiet, controlled rage he’d never seen in her before. “We’re gonna find him and we’re gonna _end him._ And we’re gonna bring you home.”

All proclamations of undying love and adoration died on his tongue. Instead, he pushed her back against the wall, slatted his body against hers, and kissed her with all he’s worth. If he’s going to spend what could potentially be the rest of his life chasing her memory, he’s going to start it off as freshly as he can.

They’d broken apart slowly, foreheads flush together and arms tight around each other, when a quiet cough at the end of the hall broke the spell. “Detective Santiago, could I have a word?” Agent Larson asked.

Amy exhaled slowly, eyes wide and earnest on his, before reluctantly slipping from his grasp. He’d stood very still after she left, leaning one hand against the wall and staring at the place she’d just stood.

He shuffled back down the hallway and stood hovering in the entrance, scanning the scene, taking it all in.

And then it hit him all at once. He’s leaving. He’s _leaving._ He’s abandoning her and Charles and Gina and Terry and Rosa, just like his dad abandoned him all those years ago. All the work he’d put in to be the opposite of his father was for nothing, because he’s _abandoning his family._

The thought was enough to drop a boulder in his chest, and he’d stumbled a little trying to get to the evidence lock-up unnoticed. He’s been here ever since.

Minutes pass. He draws his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them, trying to concentrate on the steady tick of a pocket watch hidden somewhere in the bowels of this room rather than the way his heart feels as though it is trying to escape his body. Because as devastating as his his father’s departure had been, what hurt even more was the fact that his mother tried to move on. She’d dated people on top of working all the time, as if his father’s shoes could be filled in by some boring accountant named _Todd._ And now that he’s an adult, he realizes that by the time this whole mess gets sorted out, Todd could have replaced _him_.

Todd could be Charles’ new best friend. Todd could have a push-up pact with Rosa. Todd could be Ava’s new godfather.

Todd could move in with Amy.

He gasps at this particularly grating thought, and the tears flow pretty rapidly down his face after that. God, Amy deserves to be happy. She shouldn’t have to put her whole life on hold for him. She’s got a five-year plan, and surely ‘Boyfriend spends X amount of time in WITSEC’ isn’t an item on that particular agenda. He digs the heels of his hands into his screwed-shut eyes. He needs to give her a clean break. She deserves that opportunity.

His chance comes seconds later, when the door cracks open. “Jake?” Her voice is cautious, guarded, and when he peers up at her blearily she’s frowning. “Oh, babe,” she rushes in, the door clanging shut behind her, and he reaches for her before she’s even on the ground beside him. He holds her close, crushes his nose against her shoulder, and heaves for breath. “It’s gonna be okay, sweetheart, I promise you.” She murmurs soothingly, running her fingers through his hair and gently massaging his scalp the way she knows he likes.

But it does nothing to quell the anxiety roaring through his chest. “You don’t have to wait for me,” he mumbles tearfully, and he feels her stiffen against him. “You can move in with Todd if you want to, I won’t blame you.”

“Wait, what? Who’s Todd?”

“He’s an accountant -”

“Jake,” she leans away from him, and he won’t make eye-contact. So she scrambles to her knees in front of him, hands grasping his shoulders tightly. “Even if - ...wait, Todd the accountant who dated your mom when you were a kid?” Jake nods miserably. “Okay. Okay. Even if I _was_ into dating former accountants in their _late sixties_ \- which I'm  _not_ - it wouldn’t matter.” Her palms drift up the sides of his neck to the underside of his jaw, and her thumbs smooth over the hollows of his cheeks where tears defy gravity and cling to his skin. “You are the only person I want to move in with. I love you. _So much._ And that’s _never_ gonna change, no matter where you are or how long you’ve been there. You're...you're it for me.”

“But I’m _abandoning_ -”

“ _No._ ” She says it firmly, and something dangerous flashes in her eyes. “Jacob Peralta, you have _never_ abandoned me or _anyone else_ in this precinct, nor will you _ever_ abandon us. You’re being taken away from us for your own safety because some _asshole_ wants you dead. You are _clearly_ not leaving on your own free will.”

He knows better than to argue with her, so instead, he reaches to cling to her wrists. “I don’t wanna go,” he whispers, and her gaze softens.

“I don’t want you to go, either. But you have to.”

“I know. What did Larson want?”

“She offered to send me with you and Captain Holt.”

Jake’s heart skips a beat. “To Florida?”

“Yeah.”

She gazes at him through her lashes, and Jake’s heart sinks. “You said no, didn’t you?”

“I did. Rosa and Charles and Terry are gonna need my help.” She lowers her left hand and laces her fingers with his. “You would do the same thing if our roles were reversed.”

He hates the fact that she’s right. He drops his head for a moment, staring at their joined hands, before lifting them up to cover his heart. When he looks at her again, her face is so soft and her eyes are brimming with tears. “I love you more than anything. You know that, right?”

She clenches her jaw, a sad smile flattening her mouth, and she nods. They lean in at the same time. It’s the most chaste kiss he’s ever had in his life, and his heart shatters into a billion little pieces when he feels her tears drip from her chin to the small patch of his chest exposed by the unbuttoned top button of his flannel shirt.

He pulls away from her slowly, reluctantly, and her next inhale is a little shaky. “We can do this,” she whispers, her fingers tightening around his.

“There isn’t a single person in the world I’d rather have on this case than you.”

Those are the last words he says to her. He meant to say something better, like “you’re my everything,” or “always,” or something dramatic and romantic like that, but when the moment comes, when he’s standing outside the precinct with her hands in his and tears in his eyes, words just won’t come to him. She doesn’t speak either, just closes her eyes and lifts up to the balls of her feet to kiss him one last time.

Those are the last words he says for a very long time, actually. He doesn’t speak at all in the car, or on the plane, or in the SUV in Florida, or in his new empty house. It’s cold and lonely despite the fact that the giant thermometer on his back porch proudly declares almost one-hundred degree heat. But it’s all alright, he thinks to himself as he perches on the edge of his sheet-less mattress. It’s all alright, despite the fact that his chest is absolutely empty and his heart is hundreds of thousands of roads away with a badge-wielding dark-haired woman in a sensible charcoal pantsuit. Because he knows, really, that there isn’t a single soul in existence who will get him home faster than Amy Santiago. Especially with Rosa, Charles, and Terry on her side. They stand firm in his mind, arms crossed over their chests like some comic book vigilante heroes, gazes transfixed on a common point in the horizon.

It’s the vision he falls asleep to, the one he doodles on spare pieces of paper, the one that comes to him on his good days and carries him through on his bad days.

* * *

Months later, it’s a similar vision to the one he sees on a small auditorium stage. Their arms aren’t crossed over their chests, and they’re all wearing near-identical police uniforms rather than capes, but it makes him feel just as full and happy as his imaginary vision. They stand with their arms behind their backs, heads turned toward the podium where Garman speaks about heroism and sacrifice. He’s pretty sure he’ll overload on all the emotions swirling in his brain, especially when Garman begins draping Medals of Valor over their heads and the whole auditorium - which is packed to the brim - rises to their feet in applause. He blinks back tears and claps as hard as he can, and when Amy’s head lifts against the new weight of her medal, her eyes dart to him. And she smiles.

Her smiles are a little harder to come by these days, especially when they’re out in public. Nearly eight months spent apart took a pretty obvious toll on her, just as it did on him, and the fact that she spent those eight months hunting down a dangerous madman while being hunted by that same man certainly didn’t help. The moments they’d grabbed during the day between the flurry of visitors at their new apartment were so wonderful and warm, full of gentle smiles and quiet laughter and whispers of love, but he picked up immediately on the fact that it took a little more than it did before to coax a smile out of her.

But seeing that smile - the smile she only ever really seems to give him - on full display above a shining medal and beneath the flash of cameras assures him that things are going to be okay. That _they_ are going to be okay.

His shoulders creak when he finally lowers his arms, and his right hand brushes against the little lump in his pocket. As he sits, he traces the ring with the tip of his finger quickly; even through the layers of clothes, he can distinctly feel the little diamond where it digs into his thigh. He’d seen it in a jewelry store in Florida, and couldn’t shake the mental image of that ring around her finger. It’s simple; a thin silver band and a round diamond, no frills, straight-forward and business-like just like her grandmother’s ring that she so admires. So he’d bought it, and he’s been carrying it with him ever since.

“Do you have any idea when you might propose to Amy?” Holt asks him quietly after the ceremony ends. They’re all still up on stage, talking to reporters. Jake glances over his shoulder at Amy, who’s nodding slowly as a reporter speaks animatedly.

“I have no idea,” he says as he turns back to Holt. “Just waiting for inspiration to strike.”

It's a lie. He's got this idea that involves renting out the restaurant where they had their first date and hiding the nine-nine behind a curtain in the back until after she says yes (assuming she does say yes), lots of champagne, lots of twinkle lights, lots of love. But he's got this vision of Amy in a red dress that simply isn't practical for the winter howling through the streets of New York, so he'll wait until summer comes back.

Holt raises an eyebrow, but the corner of his mouth twitches.

Jake feels a tap on his shoulder, and when he turns, he’s just inches from Amy. “Hi,” she says as his face lights up with a grin.

“Hi,” he ducks his head and pecks her lips; it’s the most PDA they’ve ever partaken in since they started dating over a year and a half earlier. And around reporters, no less. But Amy doesn’t protest; instead she smiles up at him dreamily and leans into him for a hug. “I’m so proud of you,” he says, lips against the top of her head. He runs his hand down her back experimentally and smiles when he notes that she seems to be filling out a little more. She’d been damn near skin and bones when he got home (not that he’s really one to talk).

“Quit feeling my back for fat, you weirdo, we’re in _public_.”

He tilts his head back and laughs. “I love you, Amy. So much. So, _so_ much.”

Her arms tighten around his waist. “I love you too,” and then, softly, “more than anything in the whole world.”

He lifts his hand to her head automatically, fingers smoothing over her temple, and if it weren’t for all the damn people around them he’d drop to one knee right then and there. “Let’s go home,” he says softly.

“Just _take me home_ ,” she sings teasingly into his chest, and he snorts. “ _Take me home, whoa_ ,”

“Shut up.”

“ _Take me ho-o-o-ome, take me ho-o-ome -_ ”

He pinches her side and she shrieks; when she pulls away, she’s laughing, shoving at his chest, Medal of Valor gleaming beneath the fluorescent lights. But more than that, her eyes sparkle, and her laugh sails over the buzz of conversation around them easily. Even though she twists away from him she reaches for his hand.

He gives it to her without hesitation: his hand, his heart, his life, his everything _._

**Author's Note:**

> Did the last third of this make up for it?? Idk probably not sORRY


End file.
